


Untitled Sadie Hawkins Dance WIP (title to come)

by Sinkwriter



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Beating, Bullying, Coming Out, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Episode Related, Episode: s02e20 Prom Queen, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Glee Angst Meme, Homophobia, Injury, Pre-Series, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4316220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinkwriter/pseuds/Sinkwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine's father and mother weren't expecting a phone call from the police, the night Blaine went to the Sadie Hawkins Dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started back in May of 2011, for a prompt over on the Glee Angst Meme on LiveJournal. Yeah, it's taken me that long. (I blame school, graduation, work, family, and oh... life in general. That should cover it, right? *GRIN*) I always intended to finish it, but now I really will, in honor of the Glee AO3 Fest.
> 
> Warnings: rated T for mentions of violence (bullying, beating and homophobia). There may be a few mild curse words. Any questions or trigger concerns, please feel free to private message me for more info. 
> 
> NOTE: This story is from the point of view of Blaine's father. The majority of the piece is from his perspective. Blaine will not appear until the very end, if that makes a difference to you, lovely reader.
> 
> Spoilers: _Glee_ , Season 2 Episode 20 "Prom Queen." This story is loosely based on a conversation between Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson during that episode, and of course the prompt someone posted anonymously on GAM. (To keep the general element of surprise, the prompt will not be listed until the end of this fic is posted.)
> 
> Greatest thanks to the talented [LookNinjas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas), who gave me permission to borrow the names she created for Blaine's parents (from a wonderful [Sadie Hawkin's-themed story](http://lookninjas.livejournal.com/132455.html) she wrote that you should all read). I appreciate the trust, and I hope she feels the characters were safe in my hands. Personally, I hope I can do even half the amazingly beautiful job she did in writing all her Glee stories. Seriously, go read her stuff [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas/works) and [here on LiveJournal](http://lookninjas.livejournal.com/136062.html). Go ahead. I'll wait. :)

“Mr. Anderson?”

“Yes?”

“Are you Blaine Anderson’s father?”

Benjamin Anderson paused, pulling off his reading glasses and glancing over at Miranda where she lay curled up on the couch, watching a movie. “Yes...”

“Sir, my name is Officer John Dunning from the Westerville Police Department--”

Ben’s grip tightened around the phone, its casing smooth and hard against his palm. He took a moment to fold his glasses and place them neatly on the table next to his chair. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

His wife’s head snapped up and jerked in his direction.

“Sir, I’m calling because there’s been -- well, there’s no easy way to say this, sir, but there’s been an incident.”

“My son’s at school. He’s at a dance.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben frowned. “Blaine is a good kid, he’s never gotten into any serious trouble before--”

“Your son didn’t do anything wrong. He--”

“I just spoke with him” -- Ben winced at his own rudeness, interrupting like that, but pressed forward, glancing at the clock on the mantle -- “about 45 minutes ago. He was going to go for ice cream with his date. Her father was going to pick them up; they were just waiting for him...”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Ben looked to Miranda, who was sitting up now, the soft lines around her eyes tight with worry and confusion.

“Sir, the incident happened outside of the school. While your son and his--” Officer Dunning coughed. “--while your son and his date were waiting to be picked up.”

Ben’s heartbeat increased to a steady _thump-thump-thump-thump_ as he struggled to process the words. He shook his head. “What happened? Where is my son?”

Another pause, brief yet heavy. “He’s been brought to Ohio State University Hospital.” 

Ben sucked in a breath. He looked away from his wife and focused on the painting on the opposite wall above the loveseat. Warm, soothing colors, a winding nature path...

“--there were some kids who thought--”

Ben blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say Ohio State?”

Officer Dunning cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“May I ask why?” He could feel his voice raising and he swallowed hard, fighting the tightness forming in his throat. “St. Ann’s is only _five minutes_ from the school.”

The voice over the line was firm. “The paramedics thought it best if your son’s injuries--” 

Ben breathed sharply through his nose at the word. His son had injuries. Blaine was _injured_.

“--OSU has a Level 1 Trauma Center, fully equipped to handle any emergency.”

Ben stood up, the book that had been in his lap falling to the carpet with a heavy _thunk_. He stared at his wife. 

He could only imagine the expression that must be plastered all over his face by this point. 

Miranda’s eyes widened, and her hand flew to the base of her throat. “Benjamin, what is it? What’s happened?”

He shook his head at her and turned away, pressing a hand against the side of his neck. “How -- how bad is it?” 

_Thump-thump-thump-thump._

“Mister Anderson, it would be best if you could come to the hospital right away.”

_Thumpthumpthumpthump._

“How _bad?”_

“When they took him away in the ambulance, he was unconscious. I’m afraid that’s all I know right now. I’m sorry.”

Ben marched over to the foyer, fishing through the decorative bowl on the wrought iron stand next to the door. His voice came out steadier than he felt. “Thank you, Officer. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”

He didn’t even register if he’d said goodbye; he simply hung up and dropped the phone into the bowl. When he turned, fumbling with the keys, his wife was right there.

“What is it? Is Blaine alright? Ben--”

“He’s been taken to the hospital. Something happened at school.” His fingers felt fat and uncoordinated; the keys slipped from his grip and hit the tiled floor. The grating jangle echoed all around him.

“What happened?”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t know! They didn’t give me details. There was no time.” 

Ben bent over and picked up the keys, the cold metal biting into his palm. As he straightened, his back protested and he hissed out some of his anger. 

He didn’t ask, he should have _asked_. Where was his mind? 

“We’ve got to go. Get your coat.”

“Shoes. I need shoes.” As Miranda raced to grab her coat and some shoes, Ben registered a voice coming from the living room.

_“--it’s really starting to piss me off, Dave! She’s my own little daughter, and I can’t even cry for her!”_

Ben’s chest tightened as he strode toward the TV.

Miranda’s voice reached him from the hall. “I’m ready. Are you ready?”

_“Jimmy, you’re crying now.”_

“Let’s go.” Ben pressed the button and the TV screen went black.


	2. Chapter 2

The thirty-minute drive to Columbus felt like it took hours.

Ben was a patient man, a gentle man, and a law-abiding citizen, but every red light felt like an eternity and he wanted nothing more than to press his foot down on the gas pedal and screech right through each intersection. Surely there were exceptions to be made for a father needing to get to his son. 

His son, who was _injured_.

At the State Street light he took a moment to close his eyes and brace himself against the steering wheel. His breath, tight and painful in his chest with each exhale, sounded so loud compared to his wife, silent and still in the seat next to him.

He looked to her, then, to see what she might be feeling, if she was crying, if she needed his comfort. Anything to give him something to focus on, to push the thoughts from his head, the hundreds of horrific _what-ifs_ he kept picturing. 

But she sat stiffly with her upper body turned away from him, facing the window, looking out and thinking who-knew-what at the darkness beyond the glass. The dim street lamp illuminated her reflection in light and shadow, a translucent version of the face he knew and had looked upon so many times over the years: strong jaw, sharp yet elegant cheekbones, and dark eyes. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter and he blinked; the mirror image of her looked tired, her eyes empty and half-lidded, staring at nothing.

He looked down at her slender hands, folded gracefully in her lap, and thought about reaching out to her, tugging her hands apart, taking one in his own, and finding comfort in the softness of her skin.

His own hands were wide and rough, unusual for a man of his slight build and wealthy upbringing. Blaine had always laughed and said Ben should have been a farmer, or a carpenter, or any profession where one worked with one’s hands. He did like to work on cars, much to his neighbors’ chagrin, his summer days spent tinkering under the hood of his ’59 Chevy out front on the curved, stone driveway. Blaine hadn’t enjoyed working on the car last year, but Ben had tried to get him to help anyway, knew his son would have a gift for it, his nimble fingers able to get into the narrow crooks and crannies in the same delicate way they shifted up and down the strings of his guitar or glided across the keys on the grand piano in the family sitting room.

Blaine’s hands were like his mother’s. 

Ben closed his eyes again, shaking his head against the thought, fighting to control himself and find something calm and hopeful. He sensed the light change through the thin skin of his eyelids, and opened them to the sight of his wife’s hands, her fingers clenching and releasing, the movement small enough that he wondered if he’d imagined it in the shadows of the car.

She glanced up at him then, her face questioning, and he opened his mouth, lips parting to huff out a weary sigh. He waited for her to say something, anything, to share in his pain and worry, but she merely looked down at her hands before returning her gaze to the window.

The blinker clicked off as he made the left turn onto State. Up ahead, he could see the sign for I-270 and he pressed his foot down just a little harder to reach it.


	3. Chapter 3

Rushing across the parking lot toward the entrance to the hospital, Miranda was a blur of textures and cascading fabric, an odd combination of sophistication and comfort with her elegant, ankle-length trench coat billowing out behind her, revealing underneath the just-relaxing-at-home yoga pants and hastily shoved-on tennis shoes. With her flowing curly black hair, long stride and impeccable posture she looked beautiful and determined, and Ben smiled despite himself at the vision his wife made as the sliding doors parted for her.  
   
He followed her up to the front desk where a woman sat, jotting down notes in a chart. She gazed up at them with a pleasant smile, but it faded a little when she saw how serious they looked.

“My son” -- Miranda barked at her, and Ben winced -- “I need to know where my son is, _right now_.”  
   
The nurse set down her pen and addressed Ben’s wife with a well trained, placating voice. “Ma’am, I'll be happy to tell you where your son is if you tell me his name, please.”  
   
“Blaine,” she snapped. “His name is Blaine--”  
   
“--Anderson?” A voice from halfway down the hall called.  
   
Ben and Miranda both swiveled to the right. A police officer -- a Mack truck of a man with a shaved head, massive shoulders and burly arms -- lumbered toward them, tucking a notebook into the breast pocket of his uniform.  
   
“You’re Blaine Anderson's parents?”  
   
Ben cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, that’s correct. Do you know what happened to our son?”  
   
“Sir, we spoke on the phone. I’m Officer Dunning.”  
   
Ben looked up (and up) to the giant man standing before him. “Ah.”  
   
Miranda hissed at him, “Benjamin--”  
   
He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course,” he said and reached out to shake the man’s hand. It felt so odd, all polite and civilized reflexes, as if they were acquaintances at a luncheon, not in a hospital about to discuss his son's apparent injuries.  
   
Officer Dunning gestured toward the waiting area beyond the front desk. “Perhaps we should sit and talk for a moment.”  
   
Miranda stiffened next to Ben, wrapping her coat around her torso tightly. “What is happening with my son? I demand to know what’s going on.”  
   
Ben touched her arm, but she shrugged away from him and lowered herself gracefully to the closest chair. The two men sat down, Ben in the seat next to Miranda’s, Officer Dunning tugging a chair over so that he could face the two of them.  
   
“The doctors are working on him right now--”  
   
Ben’s gut churned at the officer’s choice of words. Not stitching him up, not bandaging his wounds, but _working on him_ , his son, as if he were in need of the kind of help that Ben had dwelled upon in the car all the way to the hospital. He struggled to focus on the goliath in front of him.  
   
“I tried to get more information, to have it for you by the time you arrived, but they haven’t come out yet. All I know is that he was unconscious, his arm is broken, and there was some concern about potential internal bleeding.”

Ben closed his eyes and breathed out slowly.  
   
“I promise you, these doctors here are the best, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. They will help your son.”  
   
Ben nodded, his eyes still closed, his mind racing. _Broken bones. Internal bleeding._ He gripped the edge of the chair, feeling the rough fabric under his palms, and forced the horrific images to the background of his mind.  
   
Instead, he concentrated on picturing his son the last time he saw him, heading out the door on his way to the dance, his face splitting into a cheery grin, his bright eyes excited and lively. _“Bye, Dad! Bye, Mom! See you later!”_

_“What happened?”_ Miranda's hard voice broke through the peace of his memory.  
   
Ben’s eyes snapped open.  
   
The fingers on Dunning’s right hand brushed the pocket where his notebook had been tucked, pausing a split second before sliding down to brace against the arm of his own chair. The man shifted, his posture straightening to a more commanding and forthright stance, and he looked Ben squarely in the eyes.  
   
“While your son and his date were waiting outside the school, three boys began taunting and harassing them.” The firm delivery of his words sounded like he had already been preparing them for his report.  
   
Ben knew kids could be cruel, that older kids sometimes picked on the underclassmen, but he couldn’t understand why they’d target his son. Blaine was well liked by his teachers; they often remarked on what an energetic, cheerful presence he was in their classrooms. And he had always had friends; though now that Ben thought about it, he hadn’t seen any come to the house in a while. There _had_ been a few incidents with chewing gum in Blaine’s hair, some name-calling, generally things that they’d dismissed as juvenile pranks. Still, his son wasn’t the sort to stand on the sidelines; he was outgoing and talkative, engaging and friendly to all.  
   
Then again... his son _had_ seemed quieter lately, more introspective, but Ben had figured it was a normal part of becoming a teenager. He remembered how awkward he had felt at fourteen, how gangly and uncomfortable in his own skin. But Blaine hadn’t said anything about having trouble with bullies at school... unless perhaps this had been the first time? Maybe they were jealous. Because his son had a date to the dance and they didn’t? But why would they take it to this extreme, enough to put his son in the hospital?  
   
It just didn't make any sense.  
   
“From reports gathered at the scene,” Dunning continued, “it seems the situation escalated fairly quickly, and--”  
   
“These boys -- were they arrested?” Miranda interrupted.

The officer paused, just like he had on the phone, only this time Ben could see his face. Whatever it was he had to say, it wasn’t good.

Finally, Dunning spoke. “Ma’am, we don’t know who did this.”

“You said it was three boys--”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated for a split second. “Cameron informed us of this, and before your son lost consciousness, he confirmed it for us as well.”

Miranda frowned, her eyes growing stormy. “Then I don’t understand--”

“Ma’am--”

Her voice got louder. “This is outrageous.”

Ben leaned his head against the back of his chair, breathing deeply, willing his wife to calm herself.

The officer tried again. “There were no witnesses--”

Miranda began to yell. “If you have testimony from both children--”

“Mrs. Anderson, please--”

“--how on _earth_ could you not--”

“ _Ma’am_ , neither boy was able to identify the three that attacked them!”

Everyone froze. 

Miranda’s mouth snapped shut, Officer Dunning ran a frustrated hand over his face, and in the uncomfortable silence that followed, Ben lifted his head to stare at the police officer. “What did you just say?”

Officer Dunning cringed. “Sir, I’m sorry--”

“What boys?” Ben’s voice sounded thin; he felt like he was riding an ocean wave, the water rushing into his ears.

“I don’t think that...”

“You said _boys_. I thought Blaine and Cameron were waiting for her father to pick them up, so they could go for ice cream. Were they with another couple?”

Officer Dunning shifted in his seat.

Ben’s chest felt like all the air was being squeezed out of it. “How many kids got hurt tonight?”

“Two. Blaine and Cameron.”

Miranda gasped. “They hit a _girl?”_

Ben’s head felt muddled, like there was something he should be seeing but the pieces weren’t quite there. Or maybe he didn’t want to see them. But he couldn’t seem to let go of the officer’s careful words.

“What happened tonight, Officer Dunning?”

The man opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. The tense look on Dunning’s face seemed to say that he was searching to word things as delicately as possible.

Finally, the man spoke. “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, we believe your son was the victim of a hate crime.”

Ben shook his head, trying to clear his ears and absorb what the officer was saying. “A hate crime? You mean this was a racially motivated attack? Was Cameron the intended target? Is that what you’re saying?”

Blaine hadn’t mentioned his date was African-American, or Asian, or Native American, or... not that it mattered, given that Blaine’s own family tree was mixed race on his mother’s side, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of topic one brought up out of nowhere when describing one’s date, but if kids at school had been giving Blaine a hard time for being friends with this poor girl... 

Something still wasn’t right.

The officer had said there were two boys, but no witnesses, so there couldn’t have been another couple with Blaine and Cameron when --

Ben’s mouth went dry. He met Dunning’s eyes, and the man nodded once at him.

“You understand now, don’t you, Mister Anderson?”

But Ben couldn’t understand, because Blaine had said -- well, Ben hadn’t specifically asked, but -- 

_“Dad, I have a date to the Sadie Hawkins Dance at school! We’re in some of the same classes together, and I know the girl is supposed to ask but I really wanted to go with Cameron so I did the asking. Is it okay if I go? Cameron’s dad will pick us up and bring us home afterward so you don’t have to worry about anything, and it’s not a fancy dance so I don’t even have to wear a suit or tie, I can just wear nice pants and a button-down shirt and maybe I could borrow one of your vests, that would look really sharp, wouldn’t it, Dad? Please let me go, please...”_

Blaine had looked so nervous when all those words came tumbling out at his father, his eyes darting all around, his long fingers twisting and tangling together, one hand finally coming up to clutch anxiously at the side of his neck, but Ben had assumed it was because he really liked this girl, maybe had a crush on her, and wanted desperately to take her to this dance.

He shouldn’t have assumed.

“Benjamin?” Miranda’s wavering voice sounded so far away.

_“When do we get to meet this young lady?” Ben winked. “Is she as pretty as your mother?”_

Blaine had blushed and stammered, and Ben had found it charming. He was a regular chip off the old block, shy around the ladies, just like his dad.

Maybe he’d wanted to assume.

_“Dad, please don’t make me invite Cameron to dinner or something embarrassing like that.”_

_“It’s the right thing to do, Blaine. A gentleman should introduce his date to his parents, and meet hers.”_

_“Cameron -- um, shh-she --”_

Blaine had stumbled around his words, claiming that his date was new to the school and he didn’t want to push her too soon, make her meet his parents. It was too much pressure. They were going as friends; no need for introductions, he’d insisted. Not yet.

_“Can’t we just leave it this time, Dad? Please? Don’t make this into a big thing. We just want to go and see what it’s like, dance a little, have some fun. I promise you, that’s all.”_

The answer was there, in the sound of his son’s voice and the desperate pleading in his eyes. The pieces fit, but Ben couldn’t seem to put the last one in its place to complete the picture. He didn’t want to.

“That can’t be. Blaine’s date is a girl--” Even as he said the words, he knew they were wrong.

Officer Dunning gave him a pitying look. 

He tried again. “A girl named Cameron.”

Cameron was a girl’s name, wasn’t it? Ben considered this for a long moment.

It was also a _boy’s_ name.

“Have you actually met Cameron?” The man looked to both Ben and Miranda.

Ben swallowed hard. “No, but Blaine said--”

“Sir, Cameron is a boy.”

“You’ve got it wrong. You _must_.” Miranda’s voice was clear, high and sharp. 

“No, we haven’t. I’m sorry.”

Miranda made a wounded sound in her throat, but Ben couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not just yet. He was trying too hard to get his head around it for himself first.

Officer Dunning spoke firmly. “His name is Cameron Michael Kim, he’s fifteen years old and he is gay. We’ve already spoken to his parents and they confirmed all of this. Cameron told us himself: this was a hate crime committed by homophobic individuals. He was taunted and attacked because he is gay. Your son was his date. Your son asked _Cameron_ to be his date. I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, but your son was attacked tonight because those kids didn’t like that he was gay.”

Ben felt his limbs going numb. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. His little boy was supposed to go to the dance with a pretty girl, and one day fall in love, and get married, and give them grandchildren. He was so special, his son, so full of energy and promise. He was supposed to live an extraordinary life. That’s how it worked. That’s how it was supposed to be.

And when that doctor finally came to get them and bring them to their son, Ben was going to grab Blaine’s hands, look him deep in the eyes and get him to tell the truth.

Blaine wasn’t gay. He couldn’t be.


	4. Chapter 4

_That is not my son..._

Ben had waited with Miranda in the sitting area for more than an hour, hearing Officer Dunning’s words on repeat in his head. _Your son was attacked tonight because he’s gay._ They waited and waited for someone to come out and tell them their son was okay, that he wasn’t broken, that this was all a very bad dream.

_That is not --_

Ben had slumped in his chair next to Miranda and neither one of them had moved or said a word. She was so close, he could have reached out and touched her, put his hand on her shoulder, pulled her in for a hug, but in the minutes after Officer Dunning had left them to their thoughts, waiting for news on Blaine, that small gap between their two chairs suddenly felt like a gigantic chasm. His arms felt too heavy to lift, to reach for her.

“Miranda--” he had tried, his voice hoarse and empty.

She stood up suddenly. “I should see what’s keeping the doctor. They really should have come out by now, to tell us _something--”_

Without even meeting his eyes, she walked away to harass the poor nurse at the desk again, and he had let her go.

For what had felt like a long time he sat bent over in the chair, elbows digging painfully into the tops of his knees, and stared at his odd-funny wide hands, pressing his thumb against his palm, kneading and wringing. He had thought about Blaine and Cameron, feeling his heartbeat thudding painfully in his chest -- _he’s gay, he’s gay, he’s gay_ \-- as he tried to decide what words to use when he confronted his son.

_\-- not my son._

When the doctor had finally appeared and sat down to talk with them in a voice both gentle and a little condescending, Ben had struggled to keep up with her through the fog in his head and the twisting sensation of sickness and sorrow in his belly.

There was a concussion, for which they wanted to admit Blaine, to keep an eye on him for the rest of the night. And there had been a small tear near his spleen, caused from blunt force trauma to his abdomen -- Ben didn’t want to think about how _that_ had happened, fighting once again to force those horrible scenarios out of his head -- it hadn’t been as severe as they’d originally feared but was enough of a concern for them to have to go in and repair it surgically. And his left forearm was broken, likely the result of holding it up to defend himself or protect his face from attack.

_My son, my son._

The doctor had been kind and optimistic, saying all the right things, assuring them that Blaine would be fine, that he was healthy and strong, that everything looked good, and he would be back to his old self in no time.

But Ben didn’t know who that was anymore.

As the doctor led them to Blaine’s room, Ben felt the weight of every step. The hallway seemed too long, the walls too close. What should he say to his son?

How long have you felt this way? Why didn’t you tell us? Is it _true?_

_Who are you?_

Too soon they were ushered into the room and the doctor left them alone with their son, the door closing behind her with a soft, respectful _snick_.

Ben stood looking at the closed door for a long minute before slowly turning around to face his wife, and see his son for the first time since that bone-chilling phone call. He wasn’t ready for this.

Save for one dim utility light in the ceiling, the room was dark, the blinds drawn.

Ben inched forward, as if even the squeak of his shoes against the tile might wake his son, but the room was small and it didn’t take many steps before he found himself at the side of the bed. He took a breath and looked down.

_That is not my son._

Staring down at the body in the bed, he couldn’t seem to stop thinking that.

There was a cast and a hospital gown and bandages and bruises, too many bruises, and then his face... oh, his _face_... 

In the harsh florescent light, every bit of the boy’s pale, swollen face, every mark, every bruise, was magnified, and Ben squeezed his eyes shut at the sight. The boy in that bed couldn’t be Blaine. He just couldn’t be.

If Ben hadn’t seen the familiar mess of curly dark hair, he would have turned around, walked out and asked if they had brought him to the right room.

He forced his eyes open and looked again. A rush of nausea at the sight of his son made him shudder and he gripped the bed railing, rocking forward till his forehead almost touched the cold hard plastic. He closed his eyes and willed his stomach to settle.

A muffled whimper startled Ben from his rocking, and he jerked his head up, scrutinizing his son for any sign of movement. Blaine’s eyes were closed, his mouth slack.

Ben looked to his wife, to see if she had heard the sound or if it had been his imagination. She stood on the other side of Blaine’s bed, her hand to her mouth, her face crumpled in horror. She tore her gaze from her son and stared at Ben, her eyes wide. As she stepped back from the railing, she shook her head.

“Miranda--”

“No,” she whimpered, her sickened stare returning to lock on Blaine. “I can’t--” 

Ben moved quickly to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he whispered, “He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s going to be fine.”

Miranda yanked an arm free and pointed at the bed. “That is _not_ fine!”

Ben whipped his head back toward Blaine, but the boy hadn’t moved. The small mercies of heavy pain medication, he supposed. He turned back to his wife, keeping his voice low. “Don’t -- don’t wake him. He needs to rest.”

“I know he does!” she hissed. Her chin raised an inch as she straightened to full height. “I _know_ that.”

“Of course, I...”

“No! You don’t understand what I--” Her jaw snapped shut, her glare defiant. She tossed her hair, a few strands whipping past Ben’s face, feeling sharp like punishing lashes. “Anyway, I know what my son needs. I just... I...” Miranda glanced over at the bed again and cringed, all her angry energy deflating. “Ben--”

He took the chance and leaned toward her.

She ran a shaking hand through her long black hair, smoothing it down. Her voice faltered as she tried again. “Those boys, look at what they _did--”_

Ben closed his eyes against the terrifying pictures rushing forth from her anguished comment and pressed his forehead against her shoulder, breathing out. “I know.”

“I’m not -- I mean, I _can’t,”_ she moaned. “It’s all so... _look_ at him.”

Even as he opened his eyes to gaze upon his son, in his mind Ben could see Miranda’s hands, folded pristinely in her lap, her rigid body turned to face the car window. He knew he should probably grab onto this moment as the distraction he’d yearned for during that agonizing drive to the hospital. The moment to take her hand and wrap her up in his arms and hold her until she felt better. Until they both felt better.

But when Ben looked down, all he could see was Blaine, pale, bruised and broken. This was where he needed to be. This was the person who needed him most right now.

He reached for his wife again, stroking her arm. “We can sit here together. I’m sure the nursing staff can bring in a more comfortable chair for you. Remember when my mother was ill? They brought in that recliner so I could sleep in her room overnight?”

Miranda was already shaking her head, squirming out of his reach. “No, Ben, I can’t. I can’t be here. I _can’t.”_

“But Miranda--”

“No!” Miranda’s voice grew higher, more shrill, as she snapped, “I can’t see him like this!”

Ben froze. All the words he meant to say caught in the base of his throat, choked off like flames out of oxygen. He couldn’t reach her. She was right there, and he couldn’t --

She gasped for breath, clutching at the edges of her coat, wrapping them tightly around her. “I have to go.”

He stared at her. “Miranda, he’ll wake up soon. He--” Ben hesitated. “He’ll need us.”

She shook her head again. “I _can’t_. I can’t be here right now. Don’t you understand?” She backed away from Blaine’s bed until she almost hit the wall behind her. “It’s too much, Ben. I need -- I need some air. _Please.”_

She kept looking at him, her eyes wild and imploring, and he felt like he should say or do something to help her, to comfort her, but he couldn’t. Not this time. He felt a pull to stay in the room, to be with Blaine. He had planned on talking to his son, and he still would, somehow, when he could find the words, but for now, looking at Blaine in that bed, he needed to be there. And if Miranda needed to leave the room, then that's what she needed to do. She had always struggled with -- well, when it came to the tough stuff, sometimes maybe she just didn’t know what to do, or how to handle it, and then it overwhelmed her and she became paralyzed. He knew that. He’d seen it in her before. He had simply thought -- hoped -- that she could find her way past it this time, for their son.

The clock on the wall ticked for five long seconds before he managed to step forward, force out an appeasing smile, and take her hand. “Why don’t you ask the nurse where you can get a cup of tea? Maybe sit in the waiting area for a little while? I’ll stay here with Blaine.”

She breathed out her relief, nodding. “I think that would be best.”

Ben squeezed her hand. “Of course. It’s fine.” He brought her hand to his lips, brushing it with a gentle kiss.

She blinked at him for a moment, as if finally seeing him, her eyes softening. She reached out and cupped a cool hand against his cheek. “I’ll bring you some coffee, so you can stay awake.”

His smile was small but genuine. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“I’ll be back in a while,” she murmured, smiling at him as if everything was well again. That was Miranda. 

And just like that, with a flourish of her coat she was gone from the room, leaving him alone with Blaine.

\--

More chapters to come...


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